CALLISTA’S POV
The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic filled the lab, an all-too-familiar reminder of where my life had led me. My hands moved methodically, adjusting the dials on the centrifuge as the machine whirred softly, breaking the silence. Vials of blood—werewolf blood—lined the counter in front of me, their deep crimson hue a stark contrast against the stainless steel.
I paused, staring at the blood as memories clawed their way to the surface. My parents’ faces—gaunt, lifeless—flashed in my mind, and for a moment, I could hear their labored breathing, the way their bodies had trembled as the disease consumed them. My chest tightened.
It started with my mother.
She’d been a vibrant woman, her laughter ringing through our small house like a melody. But when the disease struck,
